


Ford's Nut

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: Ford's Nut AU [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, NSFW, Oral Sex, Other, Porn With Plot, Stancest - Freeform, cone!stan, ford does not have a twin in this au, ford's nut au, pine cone!stan, sex pollen tree secretions, tree fucking, treefrucker!ford, yes ford fucks a tree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 11:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15169733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Ford fucks a magic tree because he is Not Lonely.





	Ford's Nut

Ford will not admit that he is lonely, and that he has always been lonely. From his first squawling breath to this moment: staring down an ancient, gnarled tree that breaks through the dense understory of the Gravity Falls’ forest, its trunk is slender in comparison to its sheer height though even it is at least three feet across and covered in vivid, red bark. No, Ford is not lonely though at this moment, in the unsettling silence surrounding the massive pine, Ford thinks he would like some company. Some kind of companion, perhaps, to liven the mood. 

The forest floor is carpeted with pine needles, decades worth, surely, to be so thick that Ford suppresses a delighted giggle when he feels nearly weightless with every springy step. He thinks that this must be what it feels like to walk on the moon (though the landing was a hoax, of course) as he makes his way to the tree itself. As he gets closer the needles are interrupted by large scales of red bark that seem to have been shed from the serpent-like trunk of the tree that stretches out of sight. 

Ford ducks to observe one of these scales, and he picks it from the forest floor to observe the layers and layers of flaking cork. It’s impossible to tell how old the bark is, the ground is so dry Ford cannot fathom how the tree is alive through anything but magic, it’s own dense branches starving its roots of rain. He places the scale into a sample bag and a handful of pine needles into another. 

When he stands he feels light-headed; he must have stood too quickly. Though, as he takes a second to gather himself he notes a sweet, pungent scent in the air, reminiscent of his mother's wood polish cleaner, but deeper. Something about it makes Ford's heart thump hard in his chest, and makes him long for something but he isn't sure what. He assumes it must be home. He should call his mother when he gets back to the house.

He continues toward the trunk, and the scent gets stronger. Ford muses that the heat of the summer must be pulling the sap into the air, weaving the delicate, cloying caresses that gently pull every thread of tension from his body until he finds that he is too relaxed to stand. He gratefully kneels at the base of the tree and he wonders if this is what Fiddleford feels when he prays. A distant part of Ford is terrified and screaming--he is still in Gravity Falls. He isn’t safe here. Though, the louder but softer part of his mind offers, he could feel safe if he had a partner. It’s a confusing thought; Ford has his assistant. The only reason Fiddleford didn’t come on this excursion is due to familial obligations. (Ford feels that deep, much feeling again and thinks that, yes, he needs to call home.) 

But, Ford could have someone all for himself, a protector and a friend that wouldn’t leave him alone in that big house on weekends. (A bit like a dog, the sharp part of Ford’s mind offers, but it’s smoothed away because a dog can’t pet your hair and down your arm to hold your hand.) An assistant to help him when Fiddleford is busy; a person to talk to late at night when he’s had too much coffee. (Someone who will coax him to drink water and go to bed and, maybe, slide in beside him.) 

Ford shakes his head, strangely dizzy but unbothered. His hands are braced on the ground, over the twisting roots and scales and needles. When he pulls one hand up, a few errant needles stick to his palm. He tries to wipe them away on his jeans; they leave behind a thin but sticky smear of sap. Ford can smell pine and earth, he can almost smell the sunlight, and he tries to remember why he came out to this place at all. 

He was investigating something. The tree, it’s obviously magic. There had been rumors that the tree had the power to grant wishes. Some lovelorn youths were said to tie ribbons on its branches as tokens, and some left other offerings of food or priceless heirlooms. The stories varied but Ford can see no flash of gold or ribbon. There was only one story that had varied from the rest, Ford had discounted it as the outlier, that suggested that drinking the tree's sap was all one needed to do.

Ford takes a tentative lick at his hand (he misses the shrill shriek of Fiddleford scolding him, and he thinks it would be nice to have someone to scold him). The taste is earthy and Ford has to laugh at himself. It’s unremarkable and Ford wonders if this proves that this is merely an ancient and particularly unique tree instead of something magical and anomalous. 

The thought doesn’t sit well with him, instead, he rubs his wet palm against the tree’s rough surface, lets his fingers dig briefly into the wide cracks. He rests his forehead against the bark. It’s surprisingly warm. Not like a mammal would be warm, not as if it pulled its sap from some deep, heated core, but there is a distinct warmth there. Ford turns so that his cheek rests against the tree and he breathes deeply, one hand digging into the crevices of the tree’s surface, the other grasps at the forest floor until he has a fistful of dried needles. Neither the bark nor the needles are soft--the bark is unyielding and the needles are prickly. Ford isn't bothered by this; instead, thinks instead that he likes hard and prickly. 

Something warm and wet smears across Ford’s nose. He blinks his eyes open, he didn’t realize he closed them. Somehow, a separation of sorts has opened in the wood, as if the scales have shifted to reveal the phloem in what should be a concerning gash but is instead merely a curious gap that Ford peers into. As Ford looks, he brushes at the fluid on his nose. It’s thicker than water and a little sticky so that he has to roll up the sleeve of his jacket to scrub it away. 

The little separation in the bark seems to start at a small knot in the wood, the surface parts like water into a gap that is maybe two fingers wide at its widest before the separate sides rejoin once more. As he noted before, the opening leaves the phloem exposed; it somehow remains moist and glistening despite the heat. Ford places a thumb against the knot, pushes at the unyielding wood. 

Nothing much happens but when Ford drags his thumb down to follow the edges of the opening he’s surprised to find it wetter than before. He licks curiously at the wetness on his thumb and finds it vaguely sweet and slightly thicker than water but not quite as thick as the sap that had glued the pine needles to his hand. He reaches out again to drag a finger from the knot through the rest of the opening, gathering up the fluid to suck into his mouth. There is a brief moment that he feels foolish, swiping watery sap from a tree like some animal, but the moment is overridden by a kind of warmth that blooms in his cheeks and settles into his stomach as he braces his hands, either thumb to one side of the opening and licks into the intimate space.

The vague warmth from before is unnerving now as if Ford is pressing into flesh and not wood. The phloem is softer than he expects, not quite yielding but not as hard as the knot. Ford swipes his tongue up, sucks at one side of the opening. When he pulls back he is flushed and confused but not unhappy. He assumed that would be sufficient for any wish-granting but he feels unsatisfied.

Ford shakes the thoughts away, they are confusing and this is not: it is not confusing to duck back in and lick the phloem again, to press his tongue against it, seeking more of the tree’s fluid. He continues to lick (he feels almost like one of the rats he saw in college, lapping at a water apparatus), is both pleased and frustrated when the phloem gets wetter. He braces a thumb against the knot again, as if he could pull the gap wider and finds that whatever angle he’s maneuvered into has let his tongue find some kind of deeper opening, what must be the sapwood, and he moans.

He jerks back, surprised by his own noise. He blinks, wipes at the fluid that has smeared over his chin and cheeks. He is breathing heavily, hot and flushed beyond reason. 

Ford takes stock of himself, tries to note any adverse reactions to the tree but he finds he doesn’t much care. He is curious, yes. He is wary but he feels almost reckless at the thought that there is nothing to fear because nothing has hurt him. (He thinks he should have someone with him for this.)

He gazes at the glistening opening again, notes the darker, deeper space his tongue had found. He feels both deeply satisfied and guilty. And...empty. Ford looks at the hollowed space and feels it in himself. 

Ford is almost frantic in his movements, tongue plunging into the hole he made, thrusting in and out to gather the sweet fluid and find something but he doesn't know what. 

Ford has to draw back when his jaw is sore and the tree is covered in the slick substance. It’s only then that he notices that he has somehow become erect. (Lapping the sap from a tree has somehow aroused him and Ford chooses to note and address that at a later date.)

The warm breeze is back: this time it smells like the ocean. Ford smiles at nothing, or perhaps a  memory. He isn’t sure but he is feeling something fondly, feeling the water wash over his legs and crust his pants. Pants are silly at the beach, he takes them off. It’s awkward as he has to stand to do so. The sea breeze is rough like the waves and pushes him forward, he catches himself on the tree (and wonders what life would have been like if he had someone to stand against the breeze with). 

He isn’t really surprised when he feels compelled to penetrate the tree, the likeness to a human vulva was not subtle, but he is surprised at just how easy it is. The wood is still that not-quite-warm but somehow soft and firm and Ford tries to muffle himself as he thrusts into the tree. The cushion of the needles at his feet, the roughness of the bark; all of it makes him want. He doesn’t know what only that he wants. He wants something hard and strong and sometimes soft and sometimes rough. He wants something to keep him from looking over his shoulders at any stray gnome. 

Ford doesn’t want to be alone at night.

It’s a surprise, the way any building pleasure can be, when Ford ejaculates into the tree, hips stutterings and muscles spasming in that unsettling way that always makes him afraid. He stands there a moment, panting, thinking, breathing. He stands there as the wood grows cool and hard and finally he pulls out, tries not to think too hard about what happened (he was alone in Gravity Falls, he could legally marry a woodpecker). He frowns at his dick, considers wiping at it, debates the chafing on his walk home as he dresses himself when a hard, green pine cone smacks him on the head.

Ford yelps, rubs at the sore spot and glares at the pine cone on the ground. It’s unremarkable, frankly an ugly green and tightly closed. Ford picks it up to scowl at it. The thing shouldn’t have fallen at all at this stage but here it is, assaulting Ford’s head. Ford considers dropping it to perhaps grow other ill-tempered cones but he does not. Instead, Ford slips it into his pocket and pats himself down, checking everything.

When Ford makes to leave he pauses and looks back at the tree. The gash seems drier than before and some irrational part of Ford is offended. Even so, Ford feels indebted to the tree, though he doesn’t know why. He pulls out a half-eaten granola bar and drops it. He knows it will go to the squirrels and gnomes (he hopes chocolate won’t hurt them) but he feels a little better as he leaves with the ornery pine cone thumping against his chest with every step.

**Author's Note:**

> "hey guys what if ford fucked a magic tree and literally busted a nut and stan came out  
> ...  
> magic nut stan  
> guys  
> guys  
> he'd be a pine nut"


End file.
